


Cunning, Ambition, Passion

by Spaghettiforpapy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Violence, Casual Dismemberment, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Hermione Granger, Dark Ron Weasley, Dismemberment, Emotional Manipulation, Kleptomania, Multi, Pyromania, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Slytherin Ron Weasley, Sort Of, dismemberment is quite common in this fic, epistemophiliac Hermione, get ready to lose some fingers kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-13 16:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18035072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettiforpapy/pseuds/Spaghettiforpapy
Summary: Pyromania : an irresistible impulse to start fires.Kleptomania : a recurrent urge to steal, typically without regard for need or profit.Epistemophilia : love of knowledgespecifically : excessive striving for or preoccupation with knowledge.With quick wit, a need to hold all the world's knowledge, and an obsession with flame, Hogwarts as a whole won't know what chaotic forces hit them....Featuring Kleptomaniac!Harry, Pyromaniac!Ron, and Epistemophiliac!Hermione. Just a bit of a plot bunny bouncing in my head, been seeing a lot of Venenemaniac Harry, Kleptomaniac Harry, and Pyromaniac Harry and haven't really seen any of this being spread to the rest of the trio.May include a Venenemaniac Neville, actually. Maybe.





	Cunning, Ambition, Passion

**Author's Note:**

> i just want to write out a golden trio that is just a pure force of chaos

Harry Potter was a thief and a liar. No one believed the Dursley's when they said this, mostly because Harry Potter was the " _sweetest_ boy on the block", and he " _couldn't possibly_ be such a ruffian". 

 

To give the Dursleys' _some_ credit, he was a  _very_ good thief, and a  _very_ good liar. It was saddingly easy to widen his big, green eyes and fake a few tears, and earnestly say " _No,_ Mrs So-And-So, I wouldn't  _ever_ steal from you. Why do the other kids keep on saying that? I just want to be their  _friend_ ," and so on and so forth. People are laughably sensitive to the distress of younger children, especially if they're such "good little boys" (and, by God, isn't that creepy to call a child?). 

 

Harry dangled the shiny golden chain from his fingers as he sat, cooped up, in his cupboard late into the night. Shimmying his small body into the small corner of the compartment, he swung the chain back and forth. Kelsey Smith had received it in the first week of summer from her grandmother, and showed it off to all the neighborhood kids. Wasn't that just irresponsible of her? Harry had snatched it out of the teenager's small, white purse, her not suspicious of the neighbourhood's Patron Saint of Innocence.

 

The boy gently stuffed it into a little space under a loose floorboard, where all his other shiny and sometimes useless objects lay. Among them were crystal beads, American change, and silver lockets, all snatched from passerby and his fellow classmates. 

 

He may have a problem, he'll admit, but was it so bad if he was good at it?

 

•°•

 

Hermione Granger closed herself off from her peers. She doesn't hate them, no, she just doesn't find any use in them. Uninteresting, undeveloped, and unimportant, she has no knowledge to gain from them. 

 

She spent her days buried among the books, the gadgets, the tools, and she kept herself to manuscripts, textbooks, and instruction manuals for even the simplest of objects, if only it meant that she was able to  _know._ To know about Henrietta Lacks, and the various immortal HeLa cells that came form her, to know how to take apart and rebuild a car engine or a toaster, of all things, and furthur more, to know how to communicate to others, how people's social lives work. That last one, despite how much she finds human interaction fascinating, is a subject she limits herself from, to avoid being seen as a stalker. 

 

Hermione was hungry for knowledge. Not in the way a smart person would be, or in the way a wise person would be. She was smart, sure, but didn't rely on knowledge to get through school. She could be wise, perhaps, but would a wise person go to any length for knowledge like she does?

 

No. She was hungry for knowledge in the way a woman who thirsts to  _understand_ everything was. She wanted to understand how to do things, how to make things, how to see and think and feel. She didn't just want to know- knowing something isn't enough, but understanding that... that is a feat that she prides herself upon. 

 

Perhaps it's unhealthy, the way she secluded herself from her peers, the way she could go for days on end barely eating just so she could figure something out. But, day by day, she learns more and more. 

 

She wants to gain the knowledge of everything, someday. Everything on Earth, and then some. 

 

•°•

 

Ronald Weasley loved the heat. The stinging burn of the flames, the flickering of blue and red and orange, the tips of the flames so much like his very own hair and the base resembling his eyes. Ron also liked to share the heat. To watch it consume paper and leaves and pieces of his hair and fingernails. 

 

Of course, like any prized possession, any beauty that was worth more than anything in the world, Ron simply couldn't let his family know about it. His twin brothers were too bumbling, and would be too unappreciative, in his opinion, of the gift that is fire. Percy definitely wouldn't allow his passion to continue, and Ginny wouldn't see reason in thanking Prometheus for what is essentially life itself. 

 

Life was heat, warmth, and the crackling embers of flames. Ron's life was bathed in reds and oranges, his favorite colors. His family may think that was because of their affiliation to Gryffindor, but Ron couldn't care less for the house that didn't even carry the right shade of red in their color scheme. Ruby red, not a fiery scarlet- he would know, of course, from studying the various shades of red, orange, and blue to find suitable matches to the ethereal flames he sees daily. 

 

Of course, those three colors aren't the only colors he is limited to. Ron thanks his lucky stars that he is a pureblooded wizard, for he is able to see all sorts of colors of flame. A bright, violent green that burst from the floo in the fireplace, a dusky purple that erupted under the crack of the twins' bedroom door, and the sunny yellow of fire situated in his mother's various lanterns that she kept on the porches late at night. 

 

Ronald Weasley loved fire more than anything in the world. His life, his blood, it spoke to him and danced for him, and nothing else could compare to the wonders that they held for him. 

 

* * *

 

 

Were it not for the fact that it ruined Harry's pickpocketing attempt on the old coot next door, Mrs Figg, he may have taken more care in the owl that beelined right for him. As it was, the owl  _did_ interrupt his attempt, and  _did_ interrupt the, albeit drab, conversation he was having with Figg about her newest kitten. 

 

Figg didn't seem nearly as surprised, or offended, as Harry did. Harry, indignant as he was, still noticed that the last seemed elated, for some odd reason. The creases on her wrinkled face raised as she looked down at him. 

 

"Oh, the poor dear," was all she said, even as a  _bloody owl_ hopped up from his place on the ground, and pecked at Harry's feet violently. She bent down, picking up the little hell beast, and gently took a- wait-

 

"Is that a  _letter_?" Harry asked, incredulously. He peered at the stained white parchment that made up the letter, a wax symbol, of all things, holding it together. 

 

"A letter, yes. And a very important one, mind you- it's for you," She said, smiling ear to ear as she handed him the letter. She held the owl gently. 

 

"Wh- how? Why?" Harry asked, genuinely baffled. He looked up at her, squinting form the sun beating down at him, and looked down at the letter. "Hogwarts School of-  _what_ the bloody hell?"

 

"Language dear," Figg said, even as he shot her a look of absolute annoyance and maybe a bit of loathing. "Come inside, now, you wouldn't want to startle passerby."

 

At her words, he looked around. There were only one or two of his neighbours out, all the others clearly either sleeping in or on their vacations. The ones that were out glanced at the two of them questioningly, from across fences and lawns. 

 

Harry didn't speak as Figg gently ushered him through her doorway and inside her cramped house, cats meowing at almost every corner. A few butted his legs, and it took all of his will not to flinch back from the questionable feeling of, well,  _feeling_ another living being. 

 

She sat him down at a small, modest table. "Water, dear?" She questioned even as she set the owl down on the table. Harry looked over at the owl, and yellow eyes stared right back. His own violently green eyes narrowed. 

 

"... yes. Please," Harry decided to say, quietly, as he stewed in his thoughts. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Well, he was quite talented, and a bit of a prodigy if any of the neighbours' words were anything to go by, although... magic? Really? 

 

 ""You must be confused, dear," she said, kindly as she set a glass of water on the table. Harry didn't touch it, watching as Figg slid the yellowed envelope towards him. "Open it up. It'll explain everything."

  


Harry glanced up at her, brows arching downwards. Annoyance rushed through him- he disliked it when people were vague, valuing blunt and truthful people more. 

  


Taking the letter, he cracked the seal off and placed it on the table beside him, not bothering to be neat. It was his own letter, after all, and he didn't bother being gentle with something he wasn't going to snatch. 

  


"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," Harry said as he read the acceptance letter first, raising both brows at Figg,"that's the Headmaster, isn't it?"

  


"Brilliant man," Figg said, her voice dripping with respect. "One of, or perhaps the very, best wizards on this very planet, I'd reckon."

  


"Lovely," Harry said, only mildly impressed- he wondered if the man's parents were alright in the head, giving him all those middle names. "Why'd he decide to be a Headmaster, of all things?"

  


"Oh, Dumbledore has always been so kindhearted. He loves children, you know," Figg sighed, placing her hand on her chest. Harry wrinkled his nose as the clear admiration that leaked out of her so openly. "He's been given the oppurtunity to become the Minister of Magic many, many times. But he loves teaching more, I'd say."

  


"Wait, wait- there's a Minister for these people? Wizards, right?" Harry questioned. His eyes flirted from side to side, locking onto a few cats behind Figg that were close to a lamp, batting at it. He decided not to warn her.

  


"Well, didn't your Aunt tell you?" Figg looked confused, only just now seeing that Harry wasn't quite following with the entire concept of magic. She didn't seem to perceive his rising ire. "You're a wizard, Harry. Why, you and your mother and your father."

**Author's Note:**

> kill me  
> i have a lot of other works to write but I needed to post this


End file.
